


Kings and Castles (something familiar)

by scrubbadub



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M, Pining, they're all around 15-16 here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:07:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22661500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrubbadub/pseuds/scrubbadub
Summary: Sometimes one has to take a break from preparing for adulthood by playing a game about kings, castles, and fantasy. Sometimes, the in-denial crush joins in. Sometimes he shows you up.Goes about as well as anyone'd expect. (stangory pining one-shot)
Relationships: Gregory of Yardale/Stan Marsh
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Kings and Castles (something familiar)

"Knight Stan, you have a visitor."

He's training. There's nothing but the sound of stick swords hitting wood and the occasional person, followed by a shout, and then more movement, until he's interrupted by one of Kyle's elven brethren. Well- fake elf. None of this is _real_ , obviously, but it's always more fun to play along and think it's so in his head.

This may be the third or fourth time they've done this iteration of the game, and maybe they're all a little too old to be playing a stupid kiddy game in the summer after sophomore year, but life is terrifying and the prospect of adulthood even more so, and this… this was their alternative. Nostalgia, a glimpse into easier times, forgetting the weathering of time; he'd take this over having stupid, dangerous adventures spurred on by the absence of normalcy in South Park anytime.

"Tell them I'm busy." He goes for another sloppy swing at the training dummy set up and thwacks his sword against it, the blow rattling through his arms.

"The king says it's important. Says this traveller knows you?"

He lowers his sword and rolls his eyes, looking back over at the space the scout entered through, and someone strides through uninvited, strolling into the training area with an unexpected confidence. His hair’s pulled back behind his ears neatly, and Stan has to admit, his costume looks pretty fucking cool; it looks almost like real leather, but he’s not going to just say that because then this guy would get a huge ego, and then what would he do?

Wait a minute.

He knows this kid, doesn’t he? He remembers his face from somewhere, some distant memory in the back of his mind, of songs and urgency and being vaguely annoyed by the majority of it all, and something about Terrance and Phillip. He knows this kid from somewhere! Yeah!

“Gregory?” That’s that fucking British kid from the whole USO show bullshit from his childhood. Holy shit. The one with the sword and the flamboyance that him and Kenny called on being gay, if it hadn’t been for the guy trying to steal his girlfriend. Well… not his girlfriend anymore, but that’s not really the point, he thinks, they were dating at the time, and he was most definitely trying to steal his girl.

“Stanley Marshwalker, is it? Is that the name I was told you were using for this little game you all have partaken in? I think it’s spectacular that you’ve taken such a creative means of training, engaging the community in your cause, so I decided that I would stop by and join in a little! T’was in town, and all, of course.” Yeah, the guy’s cadence hasn’t changed one fucking bit, even if his voice has deepened out and leveled out a little bit.

“Yeah, I mean, uh, it’s pretty fun, I thought it was, like… a good way to get out and do shit in the summertime, you know? At least if we’re doing something like this, it’s not gonna get us all potentially killed. … unless Clyde pulls some shit again like he did the last time something major happened.” Gregory raises an eyebrow and starts to come closer, eyeing the training dummy, then him.

“Clyde? That one man with the letterman jacket, if I remember correctly; it seems like he was quite a passionate fellow. Am I to assume that he’s been causing trouble, then?” He clicks his tongue, then rests one hand on his hip. “I’d had hopes that he would have been a formidable ally in the coming future. A pity.”

This guy is so dramatic, holy shit. It’s not like he expected anything else, but he never really thought about the guy as the years passed. He didn’t realize he was at this level of dramatics. “Well, I mean, we were ten years old, of course he was gonna start shit. It was mostly Cartman’s fault, anyways, so we don’t really hold it against him. South Park’s fuckin’ weird, man.” He raises his sword to go for another hit at the training dummy. “If we held everything against each other that happens in this weird ass town, we’d hate everyone.”

Another thwack against the hard wood of the training dummy, and it rattles against the force of the hit. He knows he can’t go as hard with his hits against actual people, because wood fucking _hurts_ , and he’s not as much of a dick as he was when he was a kid. Gregory frowns and he spots it out of the corner of his eyes. “What?”

“You’re holding that sword all wrong. Trust me.” He lowers his sword just a little.

“Dude, I’ve been using this thing for years, I think I know how to use it.”

“The wrist support is all wrong. Look, you’re holding it wrong, let me show you.” Gregory reaches for his hand and the sword and he pulls it away abruptly, pursing his lips.

“I am _not_ holding it wrong. What the hell, come on--”

“Will you stop being so obstinate about this, I’m the one here with actual sword fighting experience and fencing training, Stanley, you’d think you would know how to accept help with this sort of thing--” There’s a little bit of a struggle as he tries to keep the sword away from Gregory, but ultimately the game of keepaway is pointless, because Gregory wrenches it out of his hands anyways.

“What the fuck! Give it back, Gregory!”

“See here? You were holding it like this, with your palm facing outwards. If you move it like this and continue to swing with the palm facing outwards like that, you’re going to hurt your tendons in your wrist, and that’ll cause permanent damage- _hey!_ ” He aims a punch at Gregory’s cheek and he steps back to avoid; Stan stumbles forward just a little, and he catches himself, standing back up.

“I said give me the sword back, Gregory!” He’s pissed off, now. Sure, he’s making a good point, he could hurt his wrists holding the sword like that, but there’s no point to be a _dick_ about it.

“Don’t try and _assault_ me when I’m doing nothing but teaching you the correct way to hold your sword in a fight! Lord almighty, were you always this difficult?” The sword gets tossed into the air and then caught, and Stan watches as he readjusts it mid strike, poking him in the chest with the wooden sword tip.

“You’re such a prick! I didn’t ask you to teach me how to use my fuckin’ sword, I know how to use it!”

He sees Gregory wrinkle up his nose a little, sees the irritation in his eyes, and there’s something… warm, in his chest, vibrant and proud, knowing that he sparked that in him. That he was able to evoke such a visceral emotion, pure and real, in someone else, someone he doesn’t immediately hate. Like, sure, he doesn’t particularly care for the guy, but he’s a pretty good fighter, he’s seen the guy’s moves while showing around, and he seems pretty competent. He has to give Gregory that much.

Maybe he needs to be knocked down a few pegs.

“Oh, really now? Then prove to me that you can use it competently. Best me in a match of both wits and battle, Stanley, and I shall lay off. But if I win, then you have to let me teach you how to _properly_ use your sword. Does that sound fine to you?” He doesn’t like the idea of having to admit defeat, but if it gets Gregory off of his ass for five seconds, then he’ll agree to it.

“Fine. You have a deal. But if I win, then you have to wear a tutu for the entire game. Scout! Give this guy a sword.” He watches the elven scout (one of the lowerclassmen that joined upon Kyle’s requests for more people joining the elven ranks) grab a sword from the stand nearby and Gregory grabs it, twirling it around in his hands. 

“What the fuck are you doing with the sword, dude?”

“Testing it out. I’m figuring out its weight.” Stan rolls his eyes, then tests his own sword. He slides into a ready fighting stance, then points his sword at Gregory- and it’s promptly knocked out of his hands by Gregory’s own sword in one swift motion before he can say anything, effectively disarming him.

“ _What?!_ ” There’s no fucking way.

“First rule of combat, Stan. Always keep your senses sharp and always anticipate the next move your enemy is going to make. I do believe that I’ve a sword to teach you how to hold, correct?”

He’s pissed off, now, mostly that he let himself get beat, but he knows when to concede. 

“Yeah, fucking- fine, whatever. Teach me how you hold a sword. Let’s get this over with.”

Gregory lets out a short, derisive puff of air, then starts waving the sword around, demonstrating just a little with his wrist the movements he’s taking. “If you’d like to stop getting snippy with me, you’ve been putting too much weight on your wrists and not enough support in your upper arms, from what I’ve seen. Your swings are unbalanced and sloppy, and you’re only reinforcing this habit with each blow to the wooden dummy. You’re going to want to hold it like this. Here, give me your hands-”

“Hey, what the fuck--” His hands are grabbed, then and Gregory’s hands are on top of his, now, making his fingers curl around the hilt of the wooden sword. His arms get positioned a little too forcefully for his liking, and Gregory swings gently for him, exaggerating the downward swing motion.

“Like that. See, like this, you have more weight in your upper arms and legs rather than your wrists and your back. You risk hurting yourself otherwise. Since you’re not using a proper sword, you don’t have to worry about the weight of your sword proving a particular danger to your health in that regard, but it’s still good to get the proper kind of practice in with something as rudimentary as a wooden sword.”

It’s then that Stan notices how close they both are. Gregory’s up against his back, arms wrapped around his own to try and get at his own hands well, and he can feel his chest rising and falling against his back; it’s an odd feeling, and he’s very loathe to admit that it’s kind of nice, being this close to someone without worrying that they’re gonna turn it into a huge deal.

Gregory may be a dramatic asshole, but he’s never really been the type of guy to hold physical contact against another guy. Not like that.

As far as he knows, anyways.

“... uh. Yeah. Can I-” He wrenches the sword free from Gregory, then gives it a practice swing of his own volition, testing out the technique that Gregory essentially shoehorned him into learning. It… does feel easier to swing with, he’ll sullenly admit that, but definitely not out loud and certaintly not to his face. Not with bystanders.

“See? Much easier! I can already see your improvement! Wonderful, Stanley!”

“Just call me Stan, man. I don’t know where this Stanley shit came from, but it’s kind of getting old.” Watching Gregory rest a hand on his hip, he’s drawn to the canted hip stance he’s adopted, taking it in one moment at a time. He doesn’t get it.

Everything about this guy screams pansy, but every time he gets a chance to try and prove it, he’s immediately disproven. The cant to his hip is countered by the actual fucking leather armor piece he’s wearing, the slight effeminate tone to his voice countered by the skill he’s shown with a sword; maybe it’s his own preconcieved notions of what a guy is supposed to look or act like clashing with reality, and he’s just being a dick about it. He doesn’t know.

The latter sounds more likely, now that he thinks about it. Probably something he subconsciously picked up from his dad. … ugh. That’s… shitty to think about.

“Well, your name is Stanley- nevermind. I suppose I’ll call you Stan, then. Glad to have been of assistance!”

Gregory sticks his hand out for Stan to shake and he eyes it gently, giving it a once over. He doesn’t want to shake his hand. He doesn’t want to admit defeat. Shaking his hand would be equivalent to letting Butters win a board game. It’s just encouraging him, at that point, setting him up for failure. Yeah.

Failure at what? That’s a line of thought he doesn’t want to follow.

Stan finds his hand drifting up to limply shake Gregory’s own hand and he sighs, shrugging. “Yeah, man, I guess. You, uh… you’re okay.”

There’s a laugh, then, that bubbles up from Gregory’s chest, and he shakes Stan’s hand twice firmly, and it leaves Stan feeling nauseous and rattled. It’s not an unfamiliar kind of nausea, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it.

So he doesn’t.


End file.
